


We Speak in Silence

by fuckslikeagod (rhoentree)



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, mute!Nasir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-16
Updated: 2014-10-16
Packaged: 2018-02-21 09:22:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2463092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhoentree/pseuds/fuckslikeagod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Prompt] Mute!Nasir.<br/>Some things are clear, even without words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Speak in Silence

**Author's Note:**

> Was supposed to be a drabble. Oh well. It was such a good prompt, I'm not at all sorry it turned out longer - there are actually a few things I would have liked to write in or elaborated on, but this will do for now.  
> I have [a drabble blog](http://theseundyingwords.tumblr.com), so if you want, please feel free to send me prompts and such.
> 
> Un-beta'd. All mistakes are my own.

The silence pains him.

Agron doesn’t know what happened to steal the words from the beautiful man he can’t tear his eyes from. He lingers on the fringes of their ever-swelling ranks, unspeaking, and Agron learns in passing that the man has no words to give, despite having means to give them. Were something to cheer him, he is told the little man would laugh, but nothing lifts his spirits so, and he remains silent. His lips part only to take breath, and food and drink; his eyes, however, are on Agron as often as his are on the smaller man.

In the last few days they’ve liberated a handful of villas in the valley, and in an evening of celebration, wine flows freely and food overflows from well-stocked cellars, yet Agron finds on reaching the bottom of his cup that he has barely tasted a thing. The company required of him by new-found brothers keeps him from that which he’d rather seek. To hear his native tongue again brings Agron joy, yet there is something missing. Perhaps it’s he pain of Duro’s passing, still so raw and thrown into sharp relief by the finding of kinsmen, yet as his eyes search the faces around him for one he didn’t realise had become familliar to him so quickly, Agron knows what it is that is missing. Yet, no matter where his eyes fall, he cannot find the one he seeks.

The chorus of laughter the next day causes Agron to turn from training. He stills, eyes fixed on the sight as he finds the smaller man before him, stepping forward into the dusty courtyard, gracefully lifting sword from dirt, intention clear. His eyes never leaves Agron’s. His previous partner retired from exhaustion, Agron complies.

For what he lacks in stature, the man makes up for in grace, and determination. Agron admires his poise and balance as he gives swings and thrusts of his own weapon, testing response. The man moves easily, even if he tires far quicker than any trained gladiator would. Agron gives instruction, words of advice. They fall on understanding ears and are heeded, even if the man doesn’t respond with words of his own. At length, Agron calls an end to their sparring, announcing the need to quench his thirst. The man is much worse off than he is, breathing heavily, skin and hair damp with sweat, yet when Agron gives a smile and suggests he join him, the other man’s smile of acceptance undermines everything Agron though he knew. This man is so astonishingly beautiful, and suddenly Agron realises he’d do anything to see that smile again, to be the cause of it.

The water is cool and refreshing as he raises it to his lips and gratefully drinks it down. The relief, however, is nothing compared to the moment in which, eyes on each other, he tentatively smiles at the silent man by his side, testing to see if he can win that smile again. It is returned so readily and so openly that Agron wonders how he could have ever known happiness before this moment.

-

He is called Tiberius. A quiet wisp of a girl, who had served in the same household as the little man, tells Agron that. Silent and unyielding, the name had been pressed upon him, that he might be shouted upon, or at. Already mature when sold to the house, no one could say if he’d ever possessed the skill to form words, although he clearly understood them. Agron dislikes the name, though, and despite learning it he never uses it. He wishes that if he asked, the man tell him his name.

-

Slowly, piece by piece, they give themselves over to each other. Agron learns the touch and taste of each part of the beautiful man’s body, and finds the silence filled with broken gasps and soft moans as he maps out his lover’s skin. As the world around them falls to chaos with the rebels tearing the arteries from Rome’s flesh, they don’t even question the comfort they find in each other’s arms. It feels like home: a sense of belonging, and as Agron whispers his own names and sweet endearments in his native tongue to the man in his arms, the smile given to him in return tells him all he needs to know. He doesn’t need to understand the words to know Agron’s meaning. They both belong to each other. The other rebels no longer question it. They no longer see the little man as Agron’s silent pet, teasing remarks finding Agron every time he is in the company of others. The silent man is respected. Both men have proven themselves in the war against Rome. Both have bled for the cause.

-

They sit alone in comfortable silence, resting against the stone wall as they hide from the midday sun. Agron’s arm falls around his lover, but he pulls away, leaning forwards. The paved floor is covered in pale dirt, and Agron watches as the other man’s fingers trail through it. It’s only when he looks to Agron, then to the floor with a solemn, meaningful look that Agron sits forward himself, and looks at the letters written there.

It takes a moment, his understanding of the shapes slow and his lips moving to mouth the word, only to find it isn’t anything he understands. A frown creases his brow, before Agron realises… he hopes…

He turns to the man beside him, the word a question on his lips. It’s greeted by a nod, and something in Agron breaks, a torrent of relief and joy coursing through him as he repeats the word - the name - over and over, tasting it in his mouth, hearing it in his ears and feeling as if it explains something, filling the void he’d not allowed himself to realise existed. He pulls his lover to him, kissing him, the name falling on every inch of skin Agron can reach. They twist together in a mess of limbs, skin damp with sweat, fingers threading through hair and lips moving against skin, expressing with touch what voice cannot. They don’t need words. This is enough.

-

There is no need to constantly touch - just being near each other is enough - yet, that evening, when the smaller man is hailed, Agron feels a hand slipping into his and tightening. He turns, and is greeted by steady, warm eyes and an encouraging smile and nod. Astonished by the permission given, Agron hesitates, swallowing. He finally turns though, his fingers tightening in response as he faced the man who had called out.

 _Nasir_ , he says.  _His name is Nasir_.


End file.
